Ice Cream (Bucky X Reader)
by LarkaBlackTail
Summary: Just a little short story I wrote late at night- it's about a girl in New York who feeds the homeless and she meets Bucky- she gives him ice cream 3 Anyway, it's really short in terms of fanfiction, so enjoy? (or don't)? Thanks


notice. I took a seat beside him, my back presses against the coarse stones of the little bridge. He was wearing a dark red baseball cap and his hair was long, hiding his face. "Hi- you want some ice cream?" I said in my sweetest voice.

"No, thank you," he replied in a hard voice. "Please? It would mean the world to me," I tried, not intending to give up that easily. He continued scrawling in his ragged notebook with the nub of a pencil. I never left home without a notebook, so I was beginning to understand him a little better.

"Well," I improvised, "at least take my pen. That pencil will be gone soon," I balanced both of the rapidly melting ice cream cones in one hand while I fished a Bic out of my pocket. Vanilla ice cream ran down my fingers, but I ignored it. I had to get through to him. He turned a little to look at me.

He had ice blue eyes that popped against his dark brown hair; I could see now he had a chain around his neck, whatever it held hanging beneath his dirty t-shirt. He frowned at me, possibly wondering what my angle was but took the pen without a word.

Ice cream was pooling on my jeans now, running down my legs and onto the concrete. "Oh, shit," I muttered and started licking my fingers and trying to clean my pants with my free hand. I could feel him looking at me again and I saw him stretch out a hand in aid. "I guess ice cream wouldn't be so bad," he let out a heavy sigh as he said it, taking one of the cones from me with cold fingers.

Cleaning myself up as best as I could, I licked at my cone fervently until it was a little more controlled. He was enjoying his own ice cream the same way, trying to stop it from melting so damn fast. He held it in his right hand, his left hand steadying his notebook. I realized the hand on his notebook seemed to be made of metal. "Is that a prostetic?"

He glanced at me, following my curious gaze. When he realized what I meant, he balled his hand into a fist and dropped his arm to conceal it better. "Sort of," he replied bluntly, remaining steely eyed. Now that he had moved his hand, I had a better view of his notebook.

The lined pages were covered in scribbles that appeared to have no organization. There were question marks following most of the statements, as if he were puzzling over something. There was almost no clean space on either page- he was trying to use every inch, because he _needed_ every inch. I didn't comment on his writing, however; our relationship had become strained after the inquiry of his arm.

We finished the ice cream in silence; everybody else had cleared out, getting rid of their excess energy with strolls through the park. After his final bite, my friend spoke without looking at me. "Why?"

Not sure he had really spoken, I said, "Huh?" He looked at me now, those eyes burning into my soul. "Why all this for people who can't repay you?"

I didn't even need to think about it- i knew the answer. "They do repay me- they give me someone to talk to," I replied quietly. He met my gaze again, understanding in his eyes. I knew he understood exactly what I meant; I wondered who he was and what he'd gone through.

He didn't turn away again- I figured he was warming up to me. "How did you get those?" his voice startled me. He was looking at my left arm, pale in the shadows, angry red scars standing out in the soft flesh of my forearm. These days, I bared them proudly, as a sign of my strength, but right now the guilt was flooding back in again.

Summer was the worst time, like I said- it meant short sleeves and shorts and strangers staring at me again. It meant kids pointing and whispering and their parents hurrying them along, inventing explanations. It didn't bother me much anymore, but for some reason this got to me.

"I...I, um, went through some bad times a year or two ago. I regret it now," I puzzled over the inclusion of that last part, but dismissed it for now. "What do you mean? Did you fight someone?" he prodded. It was like he didn't know what the troubled youth did these days.

Swallowing my disgust, I replied in a harsh tone, "No, I did it to myself," I glanced at him. His eyes were wide and his mouth hung open slightly, revealing perfect teeth. Weird for a homless guy. "Why?" he seemed to be struggling to speak, exasperated.

"It made me feel better at the time," I whispered, almost like I was acknowledging it for the first time. He ran his metal fingers over my arm, trailing over the raised scar tissue. It felt good in this heat- I was an idiot to wear jeans. "You wanna- um...," I was making a really, _really_ stupid decision right now.

"You wanna get something to eat? I'm buying," I said finally. I had a little money left on my debit card; it should be enough to cover it. He looked at me like I was a new person and nodded sharply. I pushed myself up and watched him.

He scooped up his notebook and grabbed a backpack I hadn't spotted previously; it was filled with tattered notebooks of all shapes and sizes.

I came to find out that he didn't remember any of his past life, save for scattered images and sounds triggered by who knew what. He didn't want to forget them again, so he wrote it all down and puzzled over what it meant in his spare time.

We did go get something to eat- a couple sandwiches and some bad lemonade in a little diner just outside the park. We became fast friends, and when I moved out for college and got my own place, I even let him live with me. He was the best friend I ever could have asked for. He had nightmares sometimes, but I could always quiet him down. He did the same for me when I'd had a bad day and needed someone to talk to.

Bucky was the best man I ever knew.


End file.
